Heroes Are Made
by Vi Co
Summary: This story does not fit in with any of my other Hogan's Heroes stories. However, please read and enjoy. LeBeau's chapter should be up soon.
1. Muncie, Indiana

March 3, 1985 – Muncie, Indiana

"Grandpa, who's this?" Alex Carter's sticky fingers flipped open the battered photo album he had unearthed from one of the boxes in the dusty attic.

"Who's what?" Carter asked, turning to face his young grandson. "Hey! Where'd you find that?"

"It was here, in one of these boxes." The boy's face fell. "I'm sorry, Grandpa, I didn't mean to hurt anything. It was just sitting there and I wondered what was inside. I'll put it back." He hastily slammed the book shut and shoved it back in the box.

"No, it's just that I lost that album years ago and haven't been able to find it. Come and look at it with me," Carter said, picking the book out of the box and gesturing over to the window.

"Won't Grandma be mad?"

"You let me worry about your grandmother. Plus, I think we deserve a break." Lifting a pile of ancient magazines from a moth-eaten armchair, Carter pulled the boy onto his lap. His fingers played gently around the edges of the worn leather binding. The inscription on the front had faded and rubbed off in places. "This used to say something: 'Heroes aren't born; heroes are made.' Do you know what that means?"

Alex shook his head no, seriously. Carter brushed the boy's thick hair gently away from his face. "Real heroes aren't just born and suddenly they're heroes. They're ordinary people who do great things. I used to know a bunch of them."

Flipping open the first page, a group picture of all of Hogan's Heroes stared back at him. They were positioned in front of their barracks back at Stalag 13. The Germans had shot it as a propaganda picture, but Colonel Hogan had managed to get a copy for each of them after the war. "They don't look like heroes," Alex remarked suddenly. "They just look like ordinary people."

"And that's all we were." Reaching out a finger, Carter tapped Hogan's figure. "That's Colonel Hogan, he was in charge. He could get out of any jam we happened to get ourselves in. This one time, he managed to get us all out of camp and into town. Then, at a party filled with Germans, we robbed a safe. And he got all of us through the war safely."

"You were a prisoner, right?" Alex asked, confused.

"We were all prisoners. But we were special prisoners. Only the Germans didn't know that. They didn't know that Corporal Newkirk could get into the kommandant's safe better than the kommandant. And they didn't know that Sergeant Kinchloe was in almost constant communication with Allied headquarters in London. And they didn't know that Corporal LeBeau served them dog food on silver platters. And they didn't know that the only reason there were never any escapes from our camp was because Colonel Hogan didn't let anyone escape. And they didn't know that I had one of the best chemistry labs in the area set up and working beneath their feet." As he mentioned each name, he moved his finger over them in the picture.

The picture had been hastily arranged. LeBeau had emerged from the barracks still with his white apron and chef's hat on, a spoon still in his hand. Newkirk had just finished stealing Schultz's keys, and if you knew where to look, you could see the bulge in his pocket. Kinch's finger was still marking his place in the book he had been reading. Colonel Hogan's hat was at a jaunty angle and you would never know that he had spent the better part of the night blowing up an ammo dump. Carter himself had been called up from his lab and traces of soot from his last failed experiment still marked his face.

"How come they didn't know?"

Carter shrugged. He really didn't know why Schultz and Klink had stayed in the dark for so long. "I don't know. Sometimes our guards helped us, even if they didn't know it." The bottom picture on the page was of Schultz and Klink and he pointed it out to his grandson. "These were two of our guards. Sergeant Schultz, and Colonel Klink. Schultz always said that he never knew anything but, in war, he didn't like to take sides. Mainly, he just wanted to stay alive to get back to his own family. And Colonel Klink was so worried about his reputation and keeping everything in order, that if Colonel Hogan could provide an explanation for something, Colonel Klink really didn't care if it was the truth, so long as no one escaped and it kept the Gestapo off his back."

He had often wondered how much of their operation Schultz and Klink had really known, but had never asked. After the war, they had stayed in touch through letters for the first few years, but then as they had got back to their own lives and moved forward, the letters had become fewer and farther between. Even the core group had lost touch after a dozen years.

LeBeau had gone back to Paris and rebuilt their family café. Colonel Hogan had stayed in the military and was a major general the last the Carter had heard. Kinch had gone back to school and finally managed to get the degree he had wanted so much. Then he had gone into radio where the colour of his skin meant nothing. Newkirk had opened his own pub, declaring there was no sense drinking someone else's liquor and people may as well be drinking his. And Carter himself had brought Madie back to the States and settled down to raise a family. He had qualified for his pharmacy license and bought the little drugstore in Muncie that he had worked in so many years ago.

"Was it dangerous, Grandpa?"

"Yeah, sometimes it was dangerous. A few times one of my experiments exploded –"

"Just like now!" Alex interjected.

"Just like now," Carter agreed, laughing. "But my lab wasn't out in the shed then. It was underground and it made the tunnel cave in. I got trapped down there a few times. And sometimes there were people shooting at us."

"Were you scared?"

"I think we all were. But it didn't matter if we were scared or not. It was our job to do what we did and the job still had to be done, whether we were scared or not." Casting his mind back in time, he recalled his one of his own mother's sayings. "My mom used to tell me that courage isn't not being scared; it's doing what you have to do, even if you're scared. That's all we did. We did what we had to do."

"Are you boys ready for lunch?" Madie's voice called up the stairs.


	2. West Point Military Academy, New York

March 3, 1985 -- West Point Military Academy, New York

"As I conclude, I would like to borrow the words of the late Robert F Kennedy. He said, 'It is from numberless diverse acts of courage and belief that human history is shaped. Each time a man stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centres of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.' I wish you all the best of luck as you all prepare to embark on your military careers."

In one fluid motion, almost as one body, the auditorium full of fourth year cadets stood and brought their hands up into crisp salutes for the old general. The general raised his own hand in a salute to them; not a tremor could be seen despite his age. As the general brought his hand down, the cadets burst into applause.

"Major General Robert Hogan," the professor announced proudly, rushing up to the platform to shake the man's hand.

After the last of the cadets had finished shaking the general's hand and had filed quietly out of the room on their way to the mess, the professor was left alone with the general. "So, Rob, I never pegged you as much a Kennedy fan."

"I never said that I was, Matthew," Hogan growled warmly. "I just borrowed some of his words."

"Don't get so worked up, old man. I don't want you keeling over dead on me."

Hogan would have likely made some retort, but the door at the back of the auditorium opened with a squeak of the hinges. A dark face peered hesitantly around the corner. "Colonel Hogan?"

Both men turned to face the door. It was still second nature for Hogan to respond to the title, even though he hadn't officially used it in more than forty years. But it was the other Colonel Hogan who answered, "Can I help you, cadet?"

"This cadet requests permission to speak freely, sir."

"Permission granted."

"Sir, I knew that Major-General Hogan was guest lecturing here today," the cadet replied a little nervously. "My father served with him during the war. If it isn't overstepping my bounds, sir, I would like to request permission to shake his hand."

The two Hogans exchanged glances; the elder one gave a short nod that the younger returned. "Permission granted, cadet."

The young cadet entered eagerly, the door swinging shut behind him with another squeak. Hogan's eyes swept him up and down, trying to see if he could figure out which man's son this was. There were too many men, and too many wars, for him to figure it out. "Which war was that, cadet?" he asked as the boy approached.

"The Second World War," he answered, a little confidence returning to his voice, "sir."

Hogan's mind immediately flashed back to his WWII days, the time he had spent in Stalag 13. There hadn't been many African American prisoners there; Baker and Kinch were the two that he had worked most closely with. But Baker had only daughters. And Kinch's sons surely would have been older than this by now.

The cadet had come close enough that Hogan offered up his hand. The boy took it, shaking it with a grip that was surprisingly powerful. "It's an honour to be able to do this, sir. My father brought us all up on stories about his war days. That's why I'm at West Point, sir, because he taught me that heroes aren't born; they're made."

Hogan recognised the words; they had, after all, come out of his mouth once, long ago. "I said that once," he mused softly.

"I know, sir. My father told me," the boy answered, releasing his firm grip. "Thank you, sir."

There was something about the young man's bearing, about his voice, his face, that Hogan recognised. But it couldn't be. The war had ended almost forty years ago. And here was this boy, already scurrying up the stairs of the auditorium and out the door. He was gone before Hogan could get past the word, "Cadet."

So instead he turned to his younger brother. "Matthew, who was that cadet?"

"James Kinchloe."


	3. London, England

March 3, 1985 -- London, England

"Grandpa Peter!"

Newkirk turned from polishing the mirror behind the bar to face the laughing child. "Well, if it isn't the most beautiful girl in the whole world."

She giggled, twirling around so that the hem of her dress floated in the air. Newkirk walked around the counter to scoop the little girl up into his arms, planting big kisses all over her face. She squealed, trying to return the kisses, even as she was swung up into the air.

As she was settled back to the ground, she stood staring up at him seriously. "I bringed something for you, Grandpa Peter," she declared, holding her hand out to her father. He put something down in it gently, but Newkirk didn't even look at it. He would wait until she gave it to him. That was the way that she liked it.

"Now, why would you do something like that, darling?" he asked, gazing back at her equally as seriously, even as his blue eyes danced merrily beneath his silver mop of hair.

"'cause I made it just for you. Daddy showed me how. But he didn't help," she asserted. "I did it all by myself. Just for you." And she held her hands out to him. Resting on her small palms was a lopsided paper airplane, the paper smudged and laboriously creased by four-year-old hands.

"Thank you, darling," Newkirk said, bending down so that he could be at her level. "But why did you make this for me?"

"Daddy said that you used to know how to fly. He said that you saveded the world. He said you were a hero like Superman." She tilted her head to examine him. "You don't look like Superman."

"Well, sweetie, that's 'cause I'm not like Superman," Newkirk answered gently, settling himself on the floor.

"But Daddy said that you were a hero," she said, confused.

"Heroes aren't all like Superman, doll. Sometimes they're just ordinary people." Newkirk reached out to stroke her blonde curls as she settled herself into his lap and rested her head on his chest.

"How do you tell when someone's a hero then?" she asked, her thumb meandering up to her mouth, the fingers of her other hand rubbing the hem of her dress. "What do they look like?"

Newkirk sighed. How was he supposed to explain something like this to a young child? "They look just like everyone else. Heroes are people who do what's right, even when it's hard. Or when it's dangerous. Or when it's scary."

"Even in the dark?"

"Even in the dark."

"I'm not a hero then. I'm scared of the dark."

"That's okay. You can still be scared."

"Were you scared, Grandpa Peter?"

"I was scared every day," he answered truthfully.

"Of the dark?"

"No, not of the dark. I was scared that the bad people would win."

"But they didn't?"

"No, darling, they didn't win."

"I wanna grow up and be a hero," she declared, sitting up and staring at Newkirk. "But Tommy says that heroes are just born that way, like Superman."

"A long time ago, I knew someone who said that heroes aren't born; they're made. If you want to be a hero, you go and be a hero, no matter what anyone else says."

"How?"

"There's lots of different ways to be a hero. You don't have to save the world. All you have to do is help someone else."

"Like I helped Tommy clean up the toys?" she asked excitedly. "Even when I didn't make the mess?"

"Just like that, sweetheart."

"Then I'm a hero too?" She jumped to her feet.

"You sure are, doll."

"I like being a hero."

"Me too," Newkirk said, getting to his feet. "And you can be a hero as often as you want."

"Like every day?" Newkirk nodded and she started twirling again. "I'm going to be a hero every day."

While she was dancing in the centre of the room, Newkirk came to sit beside her father. "Gee, Uncle Peter, you sure are good with kids. How come you never had any of your own?"

He sighed sadly, his eyes flickering to the picture that always hung behind the bar. "I guess I just wasn't enough of a hero to save the girl who would have been their mother."


	4. Detroit, Michigan

_March 3, 1985 – Detroit, Michigan_

"How is it that you've come to have grandchildren while my kids are still in school?" Kinch asked, bouncing the baby on his knee and listening to it giggle.

"Things, you know, happen," Tommy answered vaguely.  They both knew why Kinch's children were half a generation behind the children of the others.  They hadn't lived in a prison camp for almost the entire war.  They had been free to meet their wives and marry them and start families while Kinch was still behind the barbed wire.

"So I see," Kinch laughed, mussing the blond curls of the laughing child.  The boy leaned his head back and blew a spit bubble at Kinch.  "What does Danielle think about being a grandma?"

Tommy laughed again.  "She's not ready to admit that we're old enough to be grandparents.  She's grateful that James is still at West Point because she knows that you're the same age as I am and she's younger than the both of us."

"Sounds like a typical woman," Kinch agreed.

"I heard that, Ivan James Kinchloe," his wife called out from the kitchen where she was visiting with Danielle.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't, Sarah," Kinch retorted.  "Would mean that we're both getting old."

The two women came to the door, peering in at their men and the baby.  "You are old, Ivan," Sarah told him.  "But that doesn't mean that I am."

Danielle laughed, tossing back her graying hair.  The four of them all had gray hair now.  It was hard to believe that they were all nearly sixty-five.  "You've got that right," she told Sarah, linking their arms together.  "Now let's leave the old men to their reminiscing and you'll have to finish telling me about your visit to Susan's."  The two wandered back to the kitchen, arm in arm.

"You never did tell me how Billy and Susan are doing," Tommy said.  "They haven't made it up here in ages."

"Billy's got his hands full with the farm," Kinch explained.  "And Susie…  Well, she's just Susie.  She always has been, and always will be."

"You'd think that after all of this time, you'd stop calling her that.  We all know full well that she hates it."

"Why?  We still call you Tommy, not Tom or Thomas.  And Billy is still Billy, not Bill or William."  Kinch shrugged.  "And as for her hating it, I'm her brother.  I'm not supposed to do things that she likes."

"Point taken," Tommy answered.  "You're just lucky that Ivan James is such a hard name to shorten otherwise you'd be stuck with a nickname too."

"That wasn't any of my doing.  That was completely my parents."  Kinch reached down to tug at one of the baby's ears, eliciting another gurgling laugh.  "Where'd this little guy pick up his name, anyway?"

"I would have thought the James part was fairly obvious."

Kinch rolled his eyes.  "I had figured that part out.  I wanted to know about his first name.  How on earth did he wind up with a name like Merrell?"

Tommy sighed.  "He was my platoon commander during the war.  He died a week or two before our last reunion, about a month before this guy was born," he said sadly.  "My daughter knew how much he had meant to me.  She thought this was one way of keeping a hero alive."

"It's a good name, Tommy." Kinch said, his voice a little husky.  "It's a strong name."

"Yeah, it is.  But it's like you told all our kids, heroes aren't born, they're made."

"We'll just have to let this one make himself then," Kinch answered, "just like we let all our other kids make themselves heroes in their own ways."

"You know," Tommy started after a pause, "I never could figure out exactly where you got that from.  I mean, you're deep and all but…"

"Are you implying that I'm not smart enough to come up with that?" Kinch asked sharply, eyebrows rising in his forehead.

It was Tommy's turn to roll his eyes.  "You know that you were always the brains behind our operations.  It just doesn't sound like something that you'd come up with."

"Probably because I didn't come up with it," Kinch answered honestly.  "I mean, I'm deep and all but…"  He stopped for a second, thinking of the man who had said it.  "Colonel Hogan used to say it.  I guess I just picked it up."  He sighed, running a hand over his close-cropped curls.

"Your group was tight, tighter even than our platoon," Tommy said.  "How come you guys didn't keep in touch?"

"We tried for a while," Kinch replied thoughtfully.  "But we were scattered all across the world, not just all across the country.  LeBeau ran his own restaurant; Newkirk ran his pub.  Colonel Hogan was wherever the military wanted to send him.  Carter was in Muncie, running his pharmacy.  It was hard for us all to get together."

Tommy sat silently.  It had been hard for their platoon to get together too, but they had managed it.  They managed it somehow every five years.  Kinch noted the silence and continued, "We all came from different backgrounds, different experiences.  We were tossed together and we volunteered to stay together.  But we didn't want to remember all of the hard times.  And things got harder after the war for a while, instead of easier."

Kinch sighed, bouncing Merrell again a little.  "I think we just all wanted to get back to our lives and forget all of the horrible things that men will do to one another.  And being together brought back too many of those memories.  Maybe if we would have stayed in touch longer, things would have been different."

"Maybe it's not too late," Tommy said.  "Try to get in touch with them.  No matter what the girls say, we're not that old yet.  And you were one of the oldest in your group.  Maybe they're still around, regretting that they lost touch, just like you."

"'The time is always right to do what is right,'" Kinch quoted, "and all that?"

Tommy nodded.  "Give them a call."

"I think that I will," Kinch said firmly.

"Now," Tommy started, "I know that you're deep and all…"

Kinch started laughing.  "Martin Luther King," he answered between laughs.


End file.
